


Corollary

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Desk Sex, Dubious Consent, Feral Behavior, Knotting, Long Society Background, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega!Ben, Rough Sex, Scenting, alpha!washington, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Corollary: (n.) A natural consequence, or a result that naturally follows.Such as the events the follow a young omega entering his General's tent while in heat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Read The Tags

It is unusual, but not unheard of. There are rumors, talk. All of it, as the nature of talk so often is, is unkind. Some rumor asserts that men who, upon the age of presenting, present as omegas are nothing but women in disguise. Others, say they are the correction to women who present as alphas, made to be the breeding partners and paired off with the other unusual combinations and righting the natural order of things.

That, Benjamin had heard of. Male omegas taking the role of the alpha in the household while their wives resumes her duties as she should.

He had to yet to find himself such luck.

He had been later to present than his friends, than Caleb or Anna or even Abe, when it came to his realization. Caleb had been showing off the fuzz of his beard, crooning about drawing in as many woman as he could once he presented as a beta - snapping his teeth at the others of their little knot of friends. He hit spurts of growth, stumbling about on long legs and gesturing with uncoordinated arms, before his scent melded and molded around to his presentation.

It came, as it does with omegas, with the onset of his first heat.

He had been confused, frightened, ashamed.

As the years continued, and each month heralded in a new heat - each on weathered on the rough hay of the family’s barn like a yowling cat - only the shame remained. It lessened, yes, as he came to know more men who suffered the same affliction as he did but it never faded wholly. Not in his schooling, not in war.

Taking his heat at war was… an experience unlike the others he’d had before. Yale saw him curled in the darkest, farthest places - Nathan fetching him water, food, and baring his teeth to whosoever caught his scent and came with more than just their curiosities aroused. Nathan would stroke his hair, his back, not put off by the desperate stink or the way his body yearned for more than just the faint, brotherly touch.

But at war, the generals would storm through the camp and soak the earth in the scent of alphas, betas snuffled at the woman's heels looking for some little scrap of attentions. Occasionally, even, Ben would slip past a tent, tightly drawn and cinched shut under the guise of illness and catch a scent that is very nearly overwhelming. He understands them, understands the hardship of marching or making camp while under the monthly duress. Heats during peacetime were difficult to time properly, to know when to remove oneself from the towns before the creeping scent started to leak and attract attentions one may not want. But at war, it is a near impossibility. Stress delays the beginnings, draws out the building, the itching under the skin, the irritability that belies the onset. The adrenaline of victory, of battle, can rush a start before its time, in the most inopportune moments (Ben had heard tales of others overcome in the midsts of battle, unsure of what to do, collapsing into fits, abandoning their positions out of shame).

It is never an excuse, Ben decided that long ago. It is never an excuse to be lazy, never an excuse to hand duties down out of fear.

This is war, fear surrounds them, suffering surrounds them and with the fire in Benjamin’s belly temporarily quelled just by the power of self-reliance, he readies his report to Washington, much to the exasperation of Caleb - who sniffed the air around him and deemed Ben thoroughly unfit to so much as step out from his tent.

“If I was told to give a report to the General,” Ben repeats for what must be the fifteenth time, “then I am going to. It’s simple, Caleb, it’s not even half the distance of camp from here to headquarters. No alpha is going to heave me over his shoulder between here and there.”

“You reek of it, you ain’t gonna make it three words before Georgie’s throwing you out for the wolves so you don’t soak through and stain his floor.”

Ben pauses, hands poised to finish folding the letter he is to deliver, and crinkles his nose in distaste. “You’re disgusting. I would _never.”_

“You’re in the middle of your heat and you’re gonna be locked in a room with the most alpha alpha you’ve ever met.”

“Who gave me an order to report to him, and who is my commanding officer.”

“Who’s most likely got a real big, thick kn-”

 _“And yours,”_ He snaps, punctuating with a sharp twitch of his fingers sealing the fold of the letter and a hot flush to his cheeks. He cannot focus on such thoughts, such thoughts should not - can not - be thought of Washington. Especially when Benjamin is in such a state that such thoughts provoke bodily reactions much more surely than they would have in other circumstance. He doesn’t way for Caleb’s response, doesn’t wait for the mocking barbs at the way his evident, momentary, arousal must have been noticeable.

He tries not to think about it, about how as the only alpha Ben is in continued, repetitive contact with, Washington has seeped more and more into the heat-muddled fantasies and dreams that plague Benjamin’s nights. About how Washington always seems to send for Ben less and less on the days leading up to his heat and not once yet during it, as though Washington can sense the faintest shifts in Ben’s scent before anyone else. He tries not to think about the nights spent whimpering and whining in his tent, fully succumbed to the brunt on his heat when there is nothing to distract himself but a wandering mind and bodily imperative to mate. He tries not to think about how every inch of him craves those lingering hands on his shoulder that Washington occasionally allows.

Clearly, his endeavors fail, as the slickness grows enough for Ben to avert his eyes once he comes to the guards stationed outside the little house. Surely they must smell it on him, the false-arousal, the heat.

Benjamin clears his throat as they allow him entrance without so much as a glance, and scurries his way through the gaggle of aides as quickly as he can before one realizes his presence. He’d previously given reports in the office at this headquarters, making it of little issue to navigate the two-roomed house to which one houses the office and bed that Washington has claimed for himself.

The scent hits him hard. The heightened edge of his senses catch it before he slips into the room, but once he’s faced with the full brunt of it - he staggers, and struggles to recover in the moment. Yes, Washington has always carried the strong, enticing scent of a powerful alpha and yes, Benjamin has always found it… alluring, as do the many omegas that flood his presence. But never once has Ben been near enough to the man during his heat to truly _feel_ the pervasiveness of it. It seeps into every inch of the room, into every surface and effuses into every sharp, quickened breath that Ben takes from the doorway in a desperate, futile attempt to quell the sudden tremble of his flesh.

It isn’t real arousal, he tells himself. It isn’t real arousal. It is a phantom of his heat, he tells himself. Nothing more, it _cannot_ be anything more than a trick of his body and the desperate unbalance of his temperaments.

The growing wetness, the very, very real wetness, between his legs makes him wish he’d done what he had in his youth and pushed wads of fabric into his breeches in fear of stains - at least it would, in theory, dampen the obvious and prevent further mortification. He doesn’t think the pink flooding his cheeks has lessened at all - not as he stands perfectly still in the doorway, trying to will the tremble from his legs to step forward.

Washington sits at his desk, his quill poised against parchment but no movement signifying his writing. He is still, painfully so, and quiet.

A moment passes, and then another, before he sets down the once-motionless quill and says, in a tone more even then Benjamin could have hoped to have achieved himself, “Come in, Major.”

Ben, already on the proper side of the firmly shut door, takes it to mean simply to step closer - which he very much does not want to do, not after the first inch proves his fears: that each hair closer to Washington he pulls himself, the stronger the alluring scent of the man is. He cannot risk his proprietary, already knowing he must reek of such a disgusting heat - but he is a soldier, and no soldier dares resist a direct command from Washington himself.

So he, taking only the most sparse and shallow breaths, steps further into the room. He stops short of Washington’s desk, eyes on the marked wooden edge, and waits for further instruction. It doesn’t come until Washington - in a movement sharp and clipped, stands from his chair and examines a map on a desk on the other side of the room instead. Benjamin turns, his back now to the desk, to face him still.

The silence is excruciating, Washington moves, motions jerky and snaping, the pieces of the map around then turns his gaze up to the roof for a lingering, long moment. In the stretching time, Ben notices the shortness with which Washington’s chest moves, the way he seems to take in such short, fragmented, minimal breaths and Calebs words drag to the forefront of his mind.

_You reek of it, you ain’t gonna make it three words before Georgie’s throwing ya out for the wolves so ya don’t soak through and stain his floor._

Something festers in his gut that Ben cannot fathom. Surely, he wouldn’t mind the horror of this meeting be finished shortly - but the idea of being tossed aside, removed from Washington’s presence for a moment feels viscerally, rawly, painful. But he collects himself. This is not a social call - there were no social calls with Washington. Only the business of the ring.

Ben worries the letter between his fingers, and Washington finally breaks his silence to speak directly to the pieces on the map. “Why have you come, Benjamin?”

His mouth goes dry and a thrum runs hot in his blood at the sound of his given name. His tongue ties momentarily, and another desperate throb of (not real, not _real)_ arousal churns through him.

Across the room, Washington stiffens..

“You sent for me to bring you a report of Culper’s movements.”

“Yes, but why did you not send Brewster?”

He swallows his embarrassment and shifts - the wet, slick slide of his body absolutely horrifying. The General must think him mad to have come like this, practically prostrating before him in his heat, and it is entirely the fault of his own stubbornness. He had wanted to complete his work himself, _(he wanted to see him - he didn't want to see him - he wanted to see him)_ he had wanted to not allow for a cheap sleight of birth make him slip in his duties. He should have clarified - but he does not know how. The words, nothing comes to explain that yes, he has come himself, but as his body yearns for the touch of an alpha - he has not come to trade away such unthinkable favors for rank.

At his silence, Washington’s eyes finally rise to meet Ben’s own and ice water pours down his spine. They are dark, properly dark, with desire. The look is not unfamiliar in nature, no Ben has seen it mirrored on alphas and betas alike who he had had the displeasure of being too close to in his heat - but this look, placed within the confines of the General’s features, is something entirely new. At the shock of it, Ben takes an instinctive step back - putting space between himself at the General - but backs himself against the desk by thoughtless mistake.

The advantage is taken, and Washington stalks forward, letting hardly an inch separate them. At the quick, startled breath Ben takes in he feels his head swarm and vision dim for just a moment at the heady rush of the scent the pulsates off Washington. It’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much for this false arousal and he knows his body is too slick and too wet - pleading for touch that he cannot want, a touch that he is not _permitted_ to want. His hands fall to grip the desk behind him as he finds his bearings and casts his eyes about for escape. Surely, if he puts distance, surely if he finds himself to open air he can clear his mind and they will both come to their senses and stop this.

Surely.

The General looms above him, hunching over Benjamin’s smaller form and he feels himself freeze. Each muscle in his body locks as Washington’s breath lands hot below his ear, the tip of his nose brushing against the sensitive flesh of his neck. He breathes him in - he breaths in his _scent_ as if it he is nothing more than a springtime rose. Benjamin’s knees tremble, some horrifyingly needy noise threatens to give him away.

“No one has claimed you,” Washington rumbles, so very, _very,_ close. “You smell of no one but yourself. No alpha has touched you.” Another deep inhale. “No one has.”

He cannot bring himself to confirm, he cannot bring himself to speak, or breath, or think. Never, never in his life, in a decade and a half of heats, has an alpha been so close to him in one. His body, in all its traitorous natures, reacts with want. A clammy sweat breaks out at his brow and the back of his neck, trickling down to his cravat. Washington tugs down the cloth, pulls it loose and away to expose the column of flesh to his touch.

There is a certain… charm… in the idea of being taken. Claimed. To have Washington’s scent rubbed down his body and lingering for all to smell and realize just what events transpired - that Washington has chosen Benjamin Tallmadge to mate with, that he’s filled him with his seed and sealed him tight with his knot until he was sure that he had had his fill. That he is Washington’s, an extension of his will and his power.

Benjamin cannot deny what sorts of power and protection it would allot him. No one but those seeking a rapid death would ever lay hand on one mated by the General.

No one but the British, no one but those with a vendetta, no one but everyone would know. They would smell the General on him, know he threw his body at his feet - the Major already unworthy of his title, the Major already unworthy of his favor. Obviously he must have bought his way into the ranks, paid the price as any omega with nothing left to peddle does. With a yielding, warm body. What little respect he had would vanish in the same breath that the camp smells the reek on him, it could never be regained, never be rectified. He would be forever the omega Major, the bitch of Washington.

The realization comes with the brush of lips across his pulse and Benjamin recoils with a sudden violence, snapping his head away from the threat of a scenting. He cannot allow this - he cannot allow the dissent this will cause, no matter the familiar heat-ache in his belly, the wrong and filthy want that fills him. He attempts to twist his face away - but a hand (warm, calloused, hard) grips at his chin and returns it to face him. He can taste Washington’s breath and it’s - it’s - it’s Godly. It’s wrong. It’s too many conflicting things at once, hot and sweet over Ben’s dry, chapped lips - and he knows he does not want the repercussions, he does not want the looks nor the talk nor the sneers. He does not want all that comes with this, he does not want the lingering scent of Washington sticking to his flesh like a brand. He does not want the consequences, no matter the burn for the actions. His hands move to the broad shoulders, and his brain screams at him to _shove,_ but he does not. He cannot. He tightens his grip, and pulls him closer. He bends, and breaks, and yields.

Washington kisses him, tongue shoving past lips that refuse to resist. He kisses him dizzy, the ground wavering under Ben’s feet as the raw scent of the alpha overtakes him, invades his senses entirely and wraps itself like a vice ‘round his limbs. God, he can taste him - he can taste the tongue pressing against his teeth, slipping along his own.

Someone whimpers. Ben is inclined to believe it is himself.

Someone groans. Ben is inclined to believe that was not.

The General kisses like he commands, demanding a quick and sufficient following of his orders.

Retreat, reform, attack, reload - kiss back. So he, a soldier, a dutiful pawn, does. He kisses sloppily, unsure of himself. As no one dared touch the omega, he never took time to enjoy the practice of such things, the testing of waters with young beta girls behind his father’s church - he cannot know if what he is doing is, in its technicality, correct, but he knows for the sake of propriety and knowing his place, he is right. He kisses him because the lips against his own tell him to, because Washington would not lead him astray.

Ben knows better than to doubt an order.

When they part, saliva connecting their lips snapping after a slow moment, Ben struggles for his breath. Sucking it in through his nose only fills more with Washington’s scent, with a scent that the more he takes his fill of, the more he finds he needs. The more he finds he wants, the more the fire under his skin boils and twitches to be touched.

Each nerve in his body is inflamed, heightening every sense to a degree he hadn’t known was possible. The General traces a hand across Ben’s stomach - small and lean for want of food - and he can feel the callouses dragging through the layers of his waistcoat and undershirt. He can feel the heat, pressing through and soaking into his skin.

It rubs him, surely feeling the way Ben’s muscles twitch under his uniform, as it works around to the small of his back then returning to the front. He fingers the buttons at Ben’s fly, and Ben - once again acting on the little instinct that wrenches control from his sense of pride and respect - attempts another step back, the small of his back meeting sharply with the edge of the desk to remind him that no, no escape waits for him. The first button goes and Ben's lips wrap around the words he needed to cease this, to retain what shorn-apart shreds of dignity he may quit this tent with. He does not draw the breath to speak them. His body, traitorous and only focused on the chance at being touched, does not flinch away as Washington slips to the second button.

“See, Major?” The man looming above him croons, voice like silk-covered steel as he slips his hand into the slackened breeches. Ben tries to bring his thighs together on a half-cobbled instinct, but Washington slips a foot between his legs - urging them apart.

He clicks his tongue, “None of that, none of that. There is no need to be shy before me, Benjamin, I’ve seen many men in such positions before. Laid low by their bodies, brought to shivering messes, pleading for the knot of an alpha to turn the tides of their heat.” Slowly, the hand slips down - past Ben’s member (flaccid with nervousness and that gut-curling sickness of fear) and between his legs - dragging along the dripping slick that coats his thighs.

A shiver races down his spine, and he is greeted with another soft shushing. Some attempt, he thinks, at soothing him. The fingers are feather-light along the inside of his thighs, catching on the sticky mess of drying slick and urging more wetness from him simply by his teasing touch. Washington increases the pressure to the side of Benjamin’s foot with his own, a quiet command for more room.

Taking a deep, laced, breath, he allows his legs to be nudged farther apart. Washington presses his lips to his throat again, purring, “Good boy.”

A noise gasps its way from Ben’s chest as, on the word’s, Washington pushes the pads of his fingers through the slick mess made by his body and fits them flush against his hole.

Yes, Ben has - in moments of quiet shame and desperation - taken his own fingers into himself, but it never brought a sense of satisfaction, it never succeeded in taming the itch below the surface of his skin. But Washington's - another human's - touch, already it’s different. Ben’s legs tense, drawing another dark chuckle from Washington.

“You’ve been ready for me for so long, so slick and tight, my dear boy, so hot.”

The tip of the first finger breeches him slowly and Ben draws himself up to his toes - but Washington follows. He pushes more and more, until the whole of his broad finger is within him. It feels right, and Ben's face flushes in humiliation at the thought. He should feel disgust, revulsion - he should, he should do something. But he doesn't know what that something is, he doesn’t know what actions could satisfy the need to prove himself above his body and yet, yield to the desires that flourish within him. The faint edge of a burn nudges at the fire under his skin, fanning the flame with just a touch and making him quiver with a need unlike any other he had experienced. It must be the newness of the touch, having someone else within him like this. Surely that's all it is, a reaction. An effect, brought about by the sensation of someone touching him where no one else has.  

Washington shifts his touch, and Benjamin whines, a raw bolt of sensation shocking his limbs and making his thighs flex around Washington's thick wrist.  “Please,” he whimpers before he can stop himself. _Please what?_ The question drifts and lingers, answer outside his reach. Please more, his body begs. Washington listens, twisting and curling the finger within Ben's slick, dripping body and dancing the tip of a second along his twitching rim.

“Needy,” the General above him croons, “needy, wet little thing, my dear poor. Hush, hush, soon you will have all of me.” Teeth nip at his collar, and Ben bites his lip. He shouldn’t _want_ all of him, he shouldn’t _want_ this, he shouldn’t… he doesn’t…

The thoughts cease and cut when Washington’s second hand goes to Ben’s cock and he realizes with sudden, mortifying clarity, that he’s grown stiff with the attentions. He burns, wriggling in an attempt to escape the probing hand but only finding himself closer to the grip, and further upon the fingers. Washington makes a noise, squeezes the base of Ben’s length and repeats the sound when a ragged moan is forced up from his chest.

It is wrong, it is wrong to lust after his commander in such depraved fashions. It is wrong to feel nothing by spikes of pleasure and need, it is wrong to long for nothing more than to impale himself upon his knot and sate the feverish monster that dwells in the core of his being. He shouldn’t let his head fall back at the first lap of a tongue along his throat, pressing hotly at his racing pulse. He shouldn’t ache so sweetly, he shouldn’t allow the sweet, slick pleasure - twisting his nerves against himself, twisting his _flesh_ against himself.

Washington bites him past the juncture of his shoulder and throat and he cries so loudly he is sure the aides must know of their misdeeds. But there is nothing but need, nothing but want, nothing but a feeling of being taken.

It will bruise. A physical mark, so much like the others. Washington was here. Washington owns this thing, this body, this hole.

The only pain, the only true discomfort, comes when Washington elects to withdraw his fingers - leaving Ben’s body empty and aching for more. He offers a conciliatory rub, dragging the soaked pads along his entrance for a moment before he fully quits himself of Ben’s body - if only for the moment.

“Turn around, my precious thing.”

And Ben does, a guiding hand on the back of his neck pushing him down so that his chest is flush against the desk. He knows what will come next - and the dread in his gut is drowning in need and heat-want until all he can feel is the sweat pooling at his spine and the the air too hot and too cool at the same time as his breeches are pulled down to his knees.

There’s fabric rustling behind him, and he thinks he may be trembling - as a hand steadies to his hip. Raw, through the layers of flesh and bone and muscle touching down the soul of his being. His precious thing, his precious hole, his tight body.

He feels a sense of something trickling across his flesh. Something warm, soft - like the sensation of being loved. Of being wanted.

His uniform feels stifling, too tight ‘round his shoulders and arms, too restricting of each breath he takes in. He wants more, he wants to be able to gulp down lungfuls of the air sweetened by Washington’s scent, he wants nothing but this dizzying sensation. Like Laudanum in his veins, numbing the knowledge that this must be wrong.

Over the rushing and pounding of blood in his ears, his ears prick to the sound of clothing rustling behind him. To the creak of the floorboards under Washington’s weight shifting closer. To the unsteady breath that is followed swiftly by a rough, iron-brand hand pulling the cheeks of his rear apart.

Abashed, still, at being so exposed, Benjamin hides his face in his arms.

“You are a thing of beauty,” he exhales, voice heavy with emotion. Benjamin feels his slickened hole flutter as the thumb of Washington’s other hand brushes over it - he needs. He needs the knot of his general, of his commander, of Washington. He needs to be filled, he needs his seed, his cock, anything he could deign to give a shivering, dripping Omega.

His body has adjusted itself long ago to take the length of an Alpha, to yield prettily to the press of the dominant party, to accept him into his body as nature intended him to do. But that does not stop the anxiety that makes him tense when Washington’s thick cockhead nudges softly to his entrance. Thankfully, perhaps sensing his unease, Washington does not penetrate him at once. No, he shifts and pushes his shaft along the wet crevice, letting Ben feel the thickness of him, the weight and the stiffness as he coats himself in Ben’s own slick mess. God, god he needs. He needs it inside him, he aches down to his bones for it a sort of unending desperation that lingers just on the edge of pain. He needs, as viscerally and as maddeningly as a man adrift at sea needs water. So close to what he wishes, but at a cost that temptation can claw at for ages.

Washington speaks to him softly, little pushes of his hips dragging his hot length across Benjamin’s needy hole, “Hush now, you were made for this, my dear boy. My lovely Major. Your body was formed to fit me within it, and so it shall. Do not fret, do not fret, I shall give you what you need.”

And he does. A few more rocks before he withdraws a hand from Benjamin’s hip and instead aligns himself once again. He breaches him, and Benjamin feels, in the same moment, as though was missing an entire part of himself, as though he had acknowledged a cavernous gap within himself - and, in the same press of Washington’s hips, pushing himself into Benjamins body, stretching him, claiming him, mating him, he feels that missing part of himself wholly satisfied.

There’s a voice distant and detached rumbling words that he can’t comprehend behind him. There’s some staccato noise, little gasps and grunts and whimpers. His lips are parted, the noises stop when his teeth find the meat of his own hand. The alpha behind him pushes, deep, each inch sinking into him he swears must be the last one, but it feels like years until he feels the rough scrape of the General’s breeches against his thighs, his stones hot against him.

Benjamin takes in a ragged gasp like a man dying, and he may be. He may be dead, and this is a reward for a life lived well. To have his body spread open and filled so sweetly, so perfectly. He can feel everything magnified and intensified, the burn of his body accepting this intrusion, the tension in his abs as his muscles clench and unclench, the sweat dripping down his temples, the roughness of his uniform, the heat of Washington’s hands back at his hips.

The first slick drag of a thrust makes him cry out.

The second makes him sob.

In some delirious heat-pleasure, he loses himself, fully turned over to the beast now, and claws at the desk with sweaty hands, desperate to push back against his General’s cock. But he hands on him are stronger, flexing and pushing him into the desk. “Stay put,” he growls, “do not hurt yourself.”

But how, he thinks. How can he hurt himself on something so sweet, on a tangible fraction of heaven? There is nothing but this, nothing but the addictive opiates within his touch. His body rocks into the thrusts, deeper as Washington shifts behind him, hunching more and pressing his lips to the nape of his neck. The hands leave his hips, from the desperate casting about of his eyes he sees them grip at the farthest edge of the desk, knuckles stark against skin as he uses the leverage to push into Benjamin with such precision and force that his body twists upward in a taut bow, lips parted in a noiseless gasp as the sparks of pleasure and pain intermingle. It overwhelms him as Washington does it again and again and again, hitting him deep and perfect with each quick and hard thrust of his hips.

He buries his face in the crook of Ben’s neck, sweat-slick, where Ben can hear each feral noise that slips past tight-grit teeth over the sounds of flesh on flesh. It’s so many things at once, it’s a delicious pain and sickeningly-sweet pleasure, it’s everything Benjamin could have ever wanted from a mating. He does not mean to, but he cannot help himself, not with his throbbing cock dribbling precome and his body so given over. Teeth find his throat again and that is his undoing.

His peak comes quickly and rushes upon him and he spills with a sobbing gasp. Washington’s pace does not so much as falter, does not miss a step in his desperate taking.

It is only then, that Benjamin feels it. The tug when Washington withdraws to push back in, the strain of his body stretching again to accommodate. Were he more aware of things, such as the evident growing of Washington’s knot at the base of his cock, he would assume that to account for the shift toward animalistic roughness. But he is not, he cannot. He only knows the slick rolling down his thighs in readiness, the stretch that grows more and more at the end of each of Washington’s thrusts, the feeling of being spread more and more when he sheathes himself into his body, only repeated when he withdraws again to begin anew.

It grows, pulling at him, slowing Washington’s pace and it’s too much. It’s far too much.

“Please,” he begs again, through gasps and moans and Washington pauses, the pressure of his knot against his hole.

“Please what, Major?” He pants, hot against his ear again. Benjamin shivers at the tone, the teasing in it, the taunting edge lingering there with the breathlessness. He shifts his hips forward and the pressure increases, thick, swollen knot pressing harder but not quite inside him.

His toes curl with the feel of it all. The want, the need, the edge of pain. It is almost to the point, he knows in some instinctual part of himself, where it cannot be managed inside him. He hopes, he prays, Washington will not agonize him as so as to not give him this.

“Knot me, sir,” he whispers.

And he does. It is only that Benjamin had not taken such a thing before, that he bits the meat of his hand to avoid a scream. He knows, as it thickens more inside him with each little rock and twitch of Washington’s hips, that more experienced men would have little issue taking it at such a stage. But he is not such men, and Washington, evidently, does not expect him to be.

He does not expect the sensation of fullness and rightness to expand in the way it does, when Washington snarls and shudders behind him, filling Benjamin with his seed once they are so thoroughly locked together by his knot.

There are no words for the completion Benjamin feels, nothing to define the slowing of Washington’s wild panting in his ear, the tug of his knot against his hole, the scrape of his cheek against Benjamin’s neck. A final drag of his scent against his throat. A final claim, while deep inside him.

They do not speak, though Benjamin cannot think of a single word, not as his weak arms tremble and force him to lower his chest to the desk again. Washington takes hold of one of his hands and for a moment, Benjamin thinks this was not the end of their coupling yet - but he simply guides limp fingers back behind himself.

“Feel,” he commands, pushing them where they are linked. And… God… he feels. His tender hole stretched around the base of his cock, he feels where, when Washington gives a gentle tug, his body strains with his knot. He feels his own flesh, wet and slick and hot. He feels Washington’s hard and smooth. “It will be some time,” he says, after Benjamin has had his fill of exploring and retracts his hand back to himself, “but I fear moving to be a task which cannot be completed.”

He cannot pretend that the hard edge of the table is comfortable across his hips, but he cannot also imagine there may be a simple solution.

Washington, bringing a hand down, and resting it over Benjamin’s jacket, strokes down the line of his back.

It is some time before they may part, and even once they do, Benjamin wishes they had not. Seed dribbles out of him, combined with his own wetness, to make a mess of the breeches ‘round his knees. He would be forced, later, to scrub the remains from them in the lake. Possibly after dark, he thinks to himself. Washington, however, is kind enough to offer his own handkerchief, something to mop up the worst of the mess and to keep him from leaking something awful on his return to his tent.

Once he is dressed, however disheveled and awful it may be a dressing, and can find his footing once more, Benjamin attempts to stand well at attention. But the seed soaks the inside of his thighs, and he feels the edges of his, only now abated, heat beginning to stir again at the thought.

“Remember,” Washington purrs once more, dragging his cheek along Benjamin’s to whisper softly to him, “who so perfectly tames your heat, Major.”

He shivers, and departs.

The first sensation he knows, with the first breath of air he’s taken untainted, is eyes upon him. From across the hall, one of the aides, Hamilton, he thinks, gives him a curious look, letters grasped in hand. He sniffs once, and Benjamin’s blood turns cold.

There is knowing in his eyes.

And the Meade’s, and Tilghman’s, and the guard outside the door.

Benjamin sucks in a clear breath of air, and catches the scent of Washington’s marking. He closes his eyes and curses his God.


End file.
